Achy Heart

I've had a tight chest for three days. My usually hypochondriac mind is trying to tell me I have a heart disease of some kind but I know that's really not the case. Last week I made a pinky promise with my one close friend here at school. It was a pinky promise of a plastic less kitchen, a TV-less world, many aqua Ball Mason jars, a cheese fund, wine, and clean and safe spaces where we could relax our bodies and speak our minds. And I'm ecstatic about all of those things, I really am. At the same time, that pinky promised held a lot more then our little pinkies can actually hold. It means that I've committed to staying here, at the new school, in the new town. I still feel disconnected and unmoored here and now I've obliterated my option to go home.
Maybe the tightness in my chest will dissipate as I learn to accept the choices I've apparently made.

Food Like Product

I don't know the last time I had a completely unhindered relationship with food. It was probably about ten years ago. I could grab food anywhere, whenever I was hungry and eat it with gusto without anxiety about what it would do to my body and reading all the labels. Oh, to eat a piece of pizza...
In the last ten years my relationship with food hasn't been so carefree or healthy or comfortable. Over the last year I was able to repair my food wounds a little bit, mostly by discovering comfort foods (gluten free pasta smothered in melted goat gouda anyone?), eating a lot of greens and eating more meat and "junk foods" (gluten free pretzels and cookies in reality). I felt better, and I felt warm and cozy. I felt sturdy. There were places to grab onto on my body, a few curves to hug.
In the last two months at college my food life has taken a drastic dive. The dining hall claims to feed vegans and Celiacs but they're certainly trumped by the gluten free, dairy free, egg free girl. Therefore, I eat a lot of salad. A LOT. And a lot of cantaloupe and pineapple. My legs are polka dotted with silver dollar sized bruises, in startling shades of purple and yellow and dark blue. My pants slide down my legs without a belt and I can fit things into my bras. I'm hungry. Hungry enough to throw myself across my narrow dorm bed and moan for a few seconds while my hand rests on my growling stomach. I can hold off hunger with sleep as I always have but that strategy only works so long. The problem with all this hunger is that it makes me hungry for other things.
I'm hungry for comfort and spiritual stimulation and learning new things and hugs and sweet songs and whispered words and fall breezes and stability.
But really, a hamburger would be the first fix to all these desires.

Thermochemistry

It's a lovely idea, I agree. It makes me think of snuggles and freezing cold feet searching out warm bottoms on couches and a love's legs late at night. Heat goes toward where it is cold. When you open up the fridge the cold air doesn't come out but the hot, sticky Virginia air might rush in before you can grab your goat cheese, or your almond butter, or even if you can't decide and shut the door and wander. I'd love to write this all down on an exam, but instead I'm stuck staring at a computer animation of a piston-cylinder with too many hyperactive molecules for my sleepy, mucus filled brain to understand right now. Instead that sluggish organ keeps wandering away from the thermochemistry fridge to thoughts of home.
Oooh, in 20 short hours my body can be cuddled up with my sweet dog, while my mind rests and my lungs breathe in the sweet hometown air. The leaves are changing there and apple cider and chesnuts will be in the fridge as always. They'll follow warm, life changing meals prepared from a seemingly empty fridge by my mama.
College makes me grow and feel uncomfortable and awkward and lonely every day but I can be thankful that it makes returning home just that much sweeter. Five years ago P and I went on a walk and talked about home and what it felt like, where it was, and what it could become. Then, all we wanted was out and away but these days, as we bushwack our paths to adulthood we crave the rolling mountains of the Blue Ridge, the red bricks downtown, our cats, and our mamas.

Gulp.

Realised today that P and I are falling into some weird routine and I'm not really sure how I feel about it. All I knows is that when I get pictures of him being a tall, skinny soccer loving goof I feel a little less lonely while I walk downtown.

Missing...

Missing the Mudlings hardcore... this latte was hands down better y'all.

Latte Spurred Thoughts...

I've escaped from campus yet again, but this time I've reined myself in a little and stayed in town. I'm sad to say that it is with pride that I know I haven't run home again but I also know, given the chance (and a working vehicle) I would be home in an instant. Last night I sent P a list of the things I missed, "People. The Mountains. Food. My sister. My dog. Even my mom. You.". He sweetly reminded me that my life was amazing enough to have all those things to love, and to miss.
This seems to be my daily struggle-- I am so thoroughly thankful for the multitude of amazing friends, made family, and things that are in my life but I'd really like to tote them around with me. Perhaps life would be easier this way, though my bag would probably need to be even larger and heavier than usual. Making new connections isn't easy, it's exhausting. So, I've escaped for a little liquid energy to warm up my shivering body. It's foamy and less bitter than at home, but still familiar. Hopefully school life will soon follow the path of the latte.

Excitement.

The last two days have been all about sleeping and I'm about to do a bit more but before I do, I feel compelled to make a list. Before I decided to make a list I was feeling rather listless while laying lonely in my bed (roommate has gone home for the weekend) and slowly drifting to and from sleep.
This Week's Excitement:

• driving to Richmond.
  
• seeing M (old hausmate) and reveling in a little one on one time.
  
• FOOD. My diet has taken a turn for the worse (unless you're a rabbit) and this week my pants fell down in the dining hall. Exhorbitant calories here I come.
  
• seeing K and D. You know why? THEY'RE FREAKING GETTING MARRIED.
• technology. M and I have plans to take care of my phone problem. I foresee heartwarming phone conversations in my future.

• Seeing P. I'm trying not to be excited about this since P had such a habit of flakiness in high school but I'll be pretty tickled to see this kindergarten-highschool era friend this week if all goes well.

Home Sweet Home.

Current outfit: organic cotton t-shirt with a zebra printed on the front, yellow asymmetrical skirt, Chaco sandals, lovebird earrings and tortoiseshell glasses.

Music

Yesterday as I changed (I was at the college) to drive home, I realised that clothing is an incredibly telling geographical identifier. I slipped out of leggings, tunic and flip flops to put on my Chacos, rolled up ratty jeans and a favorite soft T-shirt screen-printed with my home town's name. Pearls were exchanged for bird earrings. As I made the costume change I took a deeper breath and already started to feel more at home.

When I recognised this I felt a little ridiculous. Clothing feels like such a superficial, fickle thing but it is important. The first thing we have to judge a person on is usually their clothing choice and different places have different clothing mores. While L and I were by the ocean for a weekend this summer we suddenly realised that we stuck out like sore thumbs. We were wearing our usual clothing and at home, we could have traded outfits with multiple passer bys. At the beach it was hard to look at an outfit and say "Oh hey, ho" (and yes, I realise that that is incredibly sexist, politically incorrect, slut shaming, etc. What I mean is "My underwear are bigger than your shorts.")

As a daughter of the South, I appreciate a nicely dressed person now and again, which happens at my small Southern college. My dad attends weddings in seersucker suits with pink shirts and enjoys a nice Madras outfit now and again. College is a mass of boat shoes, collared shirts, dresses, pearls, cowgirl boots and lacrosse shorts. The hometown regular consists of dresses made by yogawear or rock climbing companies, river sandals, boots, screen printed tee-shirts (birds, dandelions, umbrellas, typewriters) and some hipster glasses. It's good to fit in now and then.

Lonely.

Inspiration and solace for this post.

I've struggled for the past week with the idea of being alone. Close friends often make fun of me for my fear of being alone, something I blame on a more than interesting childhood of experiences.
I don't like being alone, but I recognise that it's something that's necessary for me to learn and when I do learn to be alone, it will be at trait that I treasure. In the mean time, I feel sad and confused, a little angry and very isolated.
I am surrounded by people all day long, especially now that I share a room (something that hasn't happened since I was eight) but we don't share any close connections. While I learned in the past year that I can accomplish tasks alone, I do not like being alone in a space.
However, here at the new college, the people I am closest to and trust most are 1.5 hours (or more) away, not just minutes.
Besides making my own peace with being alone, I hope to preach the gospel of being lonely. As I sat today in the dining hall eating lunch alone, I made a conscience effort to embrace sitting alone and taking in all around me as well as paying attention to my own thoughts.
Of course, being alone at a college is "weird" and we must "befriend" this person. What follows though, is an awkward encounter with a person I don't know.
All in all, try some alone time y'all, even if it's just for a few minutes.

Leaving

Music for this post.

Last weekend I managed to have a brief but lovely heart to heart with the now previous hausmate, MK. I've been psyching myself up about leaving for weeks now. New college wasn't my first choice, I wasn't even going to apply.. My mother made me visit and although campus was pretty students I came in contact with seemed uninterested in their world and themselves. It was almost disturbing coming from my liberal, multigenerational haven. And months later, new college still isn't my first choice. I don't doubt my own ability to make the best of it but I'm not excited. Anyway, as a way of dealing with this up I have generally talked about school A LOT. I have not talked about leaving or admitted to it or the fact that I'm leaving some of the people I love most in the universe.

I have lived here for the majority of my 19 years. There were smaller periods by the sea or up north but this town is the only place I would ever consider "home". I want to shout my love of this town, its people, the obsession with Thomas Jefferson, the restaurants, the mountains surrounding the town, all of that, I want to shout about it. Having lived here so long, lots of loved ones have left me. Leaving is a brand shiny new feeling. I'm not sure I like it really. It's awkward and I don't really know what to do with it so I carry it around mostly in a paper sack. I wonder when to take it out and be honest about it and when to hide it behind my back and pretend it's a happy thing.

Leaving now sucks for my loved ones who are staying. I trust that they wish the best for me but I'll still miss them. The last year was one of the happiest of my life and I attribute that to many here and those are the ones I am sorry to leave. Don't worry, I can't stay away and the USPS can be our friend.

Warning:

I recently had a long internal dialogue during the start of nap time (this happens disturbingly often because the only things happening are Hebrew lullabies and small children snoring) about the different styles of blogs and which style I think mine is. Not surprisingly I couldn't categorize myself but it does seem like, for the mean time anyway, this blog is going to be sappy, emotional, personal and really not all that intellectual or interesting. You've all been warned.

Missing #2

When my nail polish matches the tiles in the diner while I eat sweet potato fries and a large piece of tuna and an olde time band tunes ten feet away from me. Yeah, I'm going to miss that hard core.

Loving the home place.

{Or, "Things I will miss about my home town, #1}

I've been admittedly terrible about blog posting the last few months, or year really but I promise that I write plenty in a real life journal and I just keep my overdramatic ramblings to myself. Hush if you think this blog is overdramatic and just close the window. Anyway, in 21 days I leave for a new college and a new town. This is causing much loving on the original home town and defending myself to loved ones by announcing it is the last chance I have to _______!

Yesterday I walked from my haus to the hometown's downtown with LC. It was a little warm and muggy but generally pretty agreeable for this Southern town. We took in the Jeffersonian architecture and ran into too many people we knew and avoided still more (there's a certain tilt of the head that one perfects in small towns, it's just for when there's someone on the other side of the street you don't want to engage with). I was lucky because LC leaves this lovely place soon too and was just as willing to be in awe over everything we already knew and loved.

Early on we walked down a quiet street and heard banjo playing wafting around us. I have a special place in my heart for banjos and we frantically spun our heads around to find where it came from. Soon enough we spied (it did take a little time, since we are both relatively small) a boy sitting barefoot, legs dangling of a high roof top with his banjo. We both bemoaned the lack of camera, smiled at the music and walked closer to downtown.

The Poop Chronicles

Friday was the end of week 7 with the preschoolers. And a week with the preschoolers includes a lot of poop. I do not generally consider myself a poop coneseiur of any kind but living with MK for the past nine months has given me enough exposure to at least moonlight, so here goes.

Not only do I work with preschoolers but I work with the littlest ones. They are the cutest ones and the ones that sleep the most and the ones with the most interesting speech patterns and habits. And they wear diapers.

I would love to tell you that I believe my own children will never poop, or that I will potty train them pre-delivery but unfortunately, in this arena, I am quite the realist. Kids poop. Kids also sometimes have questionably gross motor skills. One kid at the preschool is adorably tall, and sturdy. Now, I use the word "sturdy" with caution. This is mostly because, once upon a time, a boy caused me a little pain and then told me he thought it'd be okay because I was so sturdy. Calling a 18 year old girl sturdy? bad idea. This kid though, is sturdy. He is only three but comes up past my hip and weighs at least 40 or 50 pounds. His height has made him impressively clumsy.

Last week he needed to poop (again, you spend nine hours a day with children and they eventually have to use the bathroom) and decided he could wipe himself. The way he showed me? Gracefully flinging some poo covered TP in the direction of my skirt (think ribbon dancing). When I asked him why he put it so near my body he replied, "I didn't. It came out on it's own". Questionable.

Yesterday I managed to have a conversation spanning the entire day only about bodily functions. And a lot of poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. Some how I doubt my new room mate at the new college will appreciate all my poop talk.

Farmer's Daughter

I am my father's daughter.

This thought crossed my mind as I began my day at work kneading a large hunk of whole wheat dough. I thought of my dad in his kitchen with an over flowing bowl of freshly risen bread dough made from scratch. This realization at the time was both some thing to savour and resist.

There are things about being his daughter that I find flattering and quaint as well as those that make me resent myself and him while I lay awake staring at my bedroom ceiling (a lovely thing that happens when you cannot sleep, a trait I inherited from him). I have a love of good fresh food complete with a touch of Virginia clay. I am passionate and head strong and stubborn. I'll argue my point until you look at me and sigh. I am sarcastic and snarky to the point of annoyance. I can't see worth anything and run into things even while wearing glasses. I wear Chaco sandals and my head resembles a square.

I plan on naming my children Cabell, and Yancey.

Those are all things I accept about myself and try to work on daily because I do not believe in complacency. The things I hate are many. I am quick to be hurt and angry. I fear that I contain that same ease in handing people I love blame while assuming the worst. These are things I share with him, a thought that makes me recoil.

Some day I will hopefully reconcile all this feelings with him but for now it's enough to just acknowledge them as I knead bread.

T-Shirts

I wish there was a service that wore your t-shirts in for you. Not the "fancy" ones that you allow yourself to wear to work. No, those must stay pristine. I mean the t-shirts that are too big and just call for you to wrap yourself in while hugging a pillow and breathing in deeply. I wear one of those to sleep when I feel like my world is a little wobbly. A little unsure. It makes me feel safe.

I feel safe tonight but also nostalgic because I'm not the one that secured the scent into this shirt. The smell of this t-shirt is something I wish I could capture in a test tube and hide in a pocket. This shirt has holes along the neck and around the arms. The print is faded while still proclaiming the original owner's participation in "THE CUP" during high school. I feel safe because of the original owner, who chivalrously sent me home in it one night after promising to try again and enjoy a summer together.

That was two summers ago and while I catch myself thinking of it wistfully more often than I would like I also love where we are now. I'm happy to care about him and see him adventure out into the world. I'm happy that he knows about my life but I don't burden him with it. I'm happy that he tries new things and goes new places. And I'm happy to be leaving at the end of this summer. I'll take the shirt with me, but not the ring.

Technofail

I just wrote this: "Spring"

but it's showing up far below.

Healing

"...and because I like hospitals", I said, and was greeted with a bemused (and perhaps slightly concerned) look. The physical therapist I'm talking to is probably twice my weight and has a shiny bald head that's reflecting the limited light in the SICU during "nap time". He's asked me why I want to be an occupational therapist. We're waiting for an energetic, sweet, and Finnish nurse named Toula to finish caring for the patient before he and the occupational therapist I'm working with head in through the various vestibules and automatic doors.

My answer is, as usual, a mumble jumble of words about diversity and caring. I'm never really quite sure what to say, and for some reason "It's what I've wanted to do since I was 15 and no, poop doesn't bother me" doesn't quite seem like the answer people are looking for. In honesty, I've been raised to believe that care for other humans is paramount. The kindness you can do people as well as service is center stage for my parents. In fact, it might be the only thing I can think of that they find equally important. I grew up knowing I wanted a career that was rewarding, helpful but also financially stable and occupational therapy fills those requirements and another list longer than Santa's.

I spend the rest of the day bouncing around various ICUs experiencing something that seems akin to OT hazing: I read charts too many times, can't find the bathroom, can't sit down, and elevators are definitely for wusses (even when getting from the eighth floor to the second). Patients thankfully make up for my heavy bladder and my aching feet and when I leave the hospital and hit the sunshine I have a small smile on my face.

Tiger Mama...

...is a babe.

Defending the Tiger Mother

I recently read Amy Chua’s “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” after the book was given a gigantic amount of publicity, blown up over the Internet, and mentioned in my beloved Minority Group Relations Sociology class. Appropriately enough we had just begun discussing model minorities, and I was (un)surprisingly given the job of talking for the United State’s entire population of Asian American young women. Not that I don’t mind this illustrious job but honestly it’s a big responsibility and a ridiculous one at that.

Someone raised their hand to say “She didn’t let her daughters go to SLEEPOVERS!”, like she had strung some one up on a rope and left them to sleep upside down. As time went on the entire list was revealed and outrage was poured out at the thought of a childhood devoid of school plays, extracurriculars other than the ones your parents picked, and TV. I didn’t help my Asian American case by raising my hand to say, “So? Normal is relative. It works.”

I realized that I was becoming quickly defensive of Chua’s methods, because I think a person should stick to their guns and I do, to a point, agree with what she’s saying. However, the sensationalist manner in which she did it was a turn off for me. She is quite the Ivy League smarty pants, and she knows exactly what she’s doing and how she can profit from it. This is to me, again, something to be admired but I don’t want to read her bragging.

My overarching opinion after reading this book, as well as listening to the criticism parents have rained down upon her and hearing her parenting discussed by students and parents alike is that there is nothing wrong with the model minority. If anything, it’s been a helpful thing in my life. It is definitely hurtful to members of the Asian community who do not fit into the model minority (Southeast Asians for instance, and those who do not have the opportunities for education that it is assumed the Asian community has) but for the rest of us, how can it hurt?

In a society that is quick to set up it’s children for dependence and failure, believing that your children should be the best ought to be appreciated and mimicked. I was raised in a world where giving up was not an option and I was held to the highest standards. I don’t think I’ve managed to meet those standards, which is sometimes difficult to come to terms with. I do know that I’m proud of 15 years of classical violin training, and 13 years of ballet. These things taught me the meaning of long term and showed me that working toward a long term goal is an achievable thing.

Ching Chong.

This is my mother with me shortly after I was born.

This morning I had an exam in "Minority Group Relations", a class I've had a love-hate relationship with since day one. Hate because invariably some member of the dominant group (white) expresses their belief in some stereotype against ANY minority group and then a lot of yelling ensues. While the black people in my class hear about their violence, oppression of women, and the Iranian girl hears about how people do not want her family in their neighborhood the stereotypes and prejudices thrown in my Amerasian direction are a little different. Mostly there's a grumbled "They're so fucking smart" or a mumbled "They make so much money" from behind me. Guess what folks? I stereotypically have 14 years of classical music training under my belt, I can hear you.

The material in this class already serves to make me a little indignant about the society I'm part of so when things like this show up on the internet I'm furious. I'd love to think that I'm a big enough person to listen to her and say, "Hmm. Maybe she just doesn't have any Asian friends that she can talk to and humanize the scary 'other' for herself" but I can't. She apparently has some Asian friends, who she isn't try to offend here with her rant and she also thinks she's onto something here. The last time I remember someone talking in the library it was an old white man. He was a professor who was almost adorably confused but still, people are rude in the library, it happens.

I understand that she might be a little angry that Asians make up a measly 3.5% of the country she lives in and then 42% of them have college degrees while 28% of Caucasians have college degrees but maybe she should consider keeping her mouth shut or just sending a friend an irritated text. Someone interested in Poly Sci might also consider keeping her bigoted prejudiced views a little more secret because the internet never dies. In the end, I just keep telling myself that my chances of graduating from college are a lot higher and on a more shallow, catty girl way, that my boobs are real. I also keep listening to this, over and over and over again because I wish so dearly that I could approach all this ignorance with laughter, a little sarcasm and maybe even something closer to bewilderment but that hasn't happened yet. Maybe his adorable guitar playing will carry over into my life.

Revamping the Old.

I have about eight thousand thoughts about race, and gender, and model minorities and the general state of things that are whirling around in my mind. HOWEVER, I do not really have the time. Someday soon though, I hope to have some quality blogging and writing time that is non-academically related.

This morning during my usual perusal of the New York Times website (Although I miss that inky, grimy feeling on my fingertips I do not subscribe to the actual paper. Let's just chalk this up to poverty and a little environmentalism) I found this article about one of my longest loves, TYPEWRITERS. Knitting, canning, film cameras, swing dancing, and typewriters are the hipster DIY revival that's paying homage to our parents and grandparents.

Put some birds, owls, typewriters, weirdo font on something and it's cool. Also antique telephones. I personally have two typewriters in the haus with me right now and they're lovely. They're clanky, persnickety, smell funny, and can give you a really nice swollen carpal tunnel if you bang out a letter but yes, there is something satisfying about the experience.

Spring

A year ago I was headed out of a winter wonderland to bask in the sun with the boy I loved. This year I am considering driving myself nine hours to New York in order to catalyze some sort of life change. Spring signifies the beginning of something new. Growing up, this time of year started the six months of scramble and long garden days in my family. Food of choice would begin to include gallons of ice cream and PBRs in addition to still warm vegetables.

Virginia Spring is always a roller coaster. Or rather, what I would imagine a roller coaster to be like if I were ever to go on one. Yesterday was a balmy 55 degrees with sun while today looks like another January.

Post Spring Shower

I wrote that two months ago but Virginia spring time is still in full swing. We've had monsoon style rains, multiple severe weather warnings and a tree fell on my car. The grass in the front hard is waist high, and classes start again on Tuesday.

All in all, I realise I'm lucky and trying to recognise the positive things happening right now:

- buy one get one free goat brie at Whole Foods

- chocolate almond butter exists. Who knew?!

- I can finish my Bachelor and then go get that Master's... some where.

- My haus mate kicks ass. 24 hour staycations are the best.

- My three parents love me, even though they have the oddest ways of showing it.

- My sister. Geez. She's amazing. I don't love any one in the world more than that girl.

- My grandma sent me an email to tell me I look like a movie star.

- I get to spend the summer with two and three year olds (my favorite age group).

- I get to spend more time in the gross anatomy lab!

- I don't get to be at camp, but I'm only three hours away. Square dance crashing shall commence.

- I finally stopped ignoring Dorothy and it feels damn good.

- My same brain friend might let me in again.

She rocks my world but carrot sticks rock hers more.

It's been two long weeks of no sleep and sadness and crying and wondering when all this will finally get out of my life. I recognise that there is much that I love in my life and much that is wonderful, beautiful, joyful, and inspiring as well. Sometimes it's easy to wonder why the people who say they care show that they don't and the people that can't say anything at all show they care.

And then you put on the latter's soft, sweet smelling tee-shirt from high school and climb into your empty bed.

Monologue

Confronting feelings has never been my forte. I'd much rather keep them under wraps then explode at some point, or stop talking to some one, or never let it out. Last night I finally had one of those dramatic moments where I just started talking, and then I didn't stop for a few minutes. I had had so many thoughts and reasonings about this person for the past few days and they heard them all. And I was surprised and relieved.

I found sweetness and understanding where I thought I would find disappointment and anger. I found someone who was as human as I really should have expected all along. It was humbling, yet again, to realise that this person is very much like me. It was even more humbling to remember how much I actually care about this person, regardless of how scathing and mean I can be.

Sneezing Fit Ponderings

I work with many snot nosed children, who I love dearly but who also drip with germs and bacteria (and, at times, little bugs to live in your hair). It was really only a matter of time before they transferred some sort of sore throat, runny nose, sneezing experience over to me and apparently that time was this week. It seems odd to say I wish it were sooner because then this wouldn't coincide with my first week of classes, a house sitting job, an interview (now cancelled), and bleeding (internal and external, you don't really want to know).

Despite my desperate wish to get more sleep in 2011 I've spent a lot of time awake. Even when I dutifully hop in my bed at 10 p.m. it's only to roll around (solo) for a few hours and then decide that I should just suck it up and use my late night productivity. This past week I started yet another college application and. . . SURPRISE! I got to select as many races as I wanted. And they were described.

By the time I got to this point in the application it was solidly 2 a.m. and I was awake but groggy at best. I usually answer questions about my race, regardless of whether or not I find them intrusive because I see it as an opportunity to educate someone and hopefully they might not offend the next person they see. This being said, I know it's hard to get my mutt status to fit into any form and I'm conditioned to think that I must check "other". There was no "other" on this form.

What was I supposed to do?

Ah, but the ingenious thing was that I could check Asian (including Pacific Islander, Chinese, Cambodian, Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean. . . it's a long list) and Caucasian (including Middle Eastern, to which a girl in one of my classes announced "I feel so lame now! I'm white!"). These things are, of course, socially constructed and have no meaning in the academic world unless a college is off touting it's diversity statistics. Statistics or not, so many colleges create such definitive divides between their International community and their native community (and with this, I mean natively born and raised. . . not Native American, unfortunately) that it doesn't matter.

Thankful 8.

To My Male Bridesmaid:

Don't worry, you don't have to wear a dress. You just have to be there. And the best part is knowing you will.

I'm sending you a small package tomorrow- packed tight with blue bubble wrap, chocolate, butter, glow-in-the-dark rubber bands, and love. Hopefully it'll go well with tea while you exercise the pretentious tendencies I can't help but love. I could rhapsodize on about the things I love about you but this is, after all, a thankful post. . .

Thank you for: late night texts and even later inebriated phone calls, shared sarcasm, a secret love of romanticism, pictures of glasses of Scotch and pig flashlights and cans of SPAM, late night sleepover chats, questionable movie choices, pretentious and over the top vocabulary, adopting words, shared woodland dreams, Elliot, 3 a.m. paper editing, 5 a.m. conversations, stolen time, shared realizations, deciding to be rocks, phone calls just to say good night, random things to share the day, making fun of people, shared tears, warming extremities, squishing yourself into the couch to watch a movie, always listening, being okay with who I am (all the time, no matter what), telling me to get over it, being the same person sometimes, sharing a brain, being alone, and being there.

Thankful 7.

To My Lame Duck:

It's been a long road that's gotten us here. A road full of tribulations (I have an odd love of that word), laughter, clumsy falls up stairs, loudly off key renditions of famous music, tears, one major fight, and a lot of growing up.

So I just want to thank you for a few things from over the last 14 going on 15 years:

- for being so happy for a play date that you wouldn't leave that corner of my room.

- for dressing up.

- for killing off our parents.

- for a love of the entire Colonial era.

- for the being the aunt of my eight (or was it 12?) children.

- for drinking water out of thimble sized cups.

- for baskets full of candy.

- for riding the bus.

- for first crushes.

- for showing me the ways of High School.

- for being by my side for almost every school change.

- for talking. So much.

- for late night check ins.

- for sob fests in your bed.

- for bellying aching laughter.

- for multiple nick names.

Thankful 6.

To My Fellow Trash Gnome:

Thank you for always being supportive and full of vast wise energy. Thank you for helping me triumph a little bit in my independence. Thank you for two lovely cat roommates (as much as I complain about them, my life is the better for them). Thank you for day long Grey's Anatomy marathons, 9 mile hikes, brutal rock scrambles, early morning drives, cooking adventures, taking food to movies, art expression, music, wine drinking, fruit snack eating, mental health finding, New Year's resolution keeping, and excitement over the little (and the best) things in life!